


So Loved by the Moon

by mokuyoubi



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fluff, I'm so sorry, M/M, Memory Palace, Murder Husbands, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, but have you heard the shit that comes out of Hannibal's mouth?, horrendously purple prose, like gag me with a spoon, switch Will and Hannibal, two stupidly in love idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 03:31:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8085022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: Will's having trouble remaining still while Hannibal draws him, so Hannibal distracts him with a visit to their joint memory palace.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hannigrammatic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannigrammatic/gifts).



> For the occasion [hannigrammatic's](http://hannigrammatic.tumblr.com/) birth, and the request: little moments of sweetness, like cuddling or Hanni complimenting Will until he gets flustered/blushes (or vice versa of course!!!!) :D So really anything in that range if it strikes your fancy
> 
> Which, of course, got a bit away from me...

Will is used to catching Hannibal sketching him at this point--whether from memory, or quietly coming upon Will in the garage while he works, or in the garden while he reads. It’s different though, actually posing, splayed out across the sheets of their bed, still unmade from the night before.

Waking to Hannibal lying propped on his elbow, not quite touching at any point of their bodies, staring at him with a familiar intensity that once unnerved Will. A myriad of emotions flickering through Hannibal’s eyes, awe and fear and that dangerous, obsessive love that should smother Will.

“I would like very much to draw you like this.” and Will understands what Hannibal really means, the desire to contain him, to uncover the thing in Will that draws Hannibal to him so relentlessly, exposed in charcoal, captured forever on Hannibal’s canvas.

There’s an answering longing in Will’s chest that clenches at his heart. Hannibal’s drawings remind him as nothing so much as a diagram in a medical text. Peeling back the layers of skin and muscle to expose his inner workings. So much of what lurked within the dark corners of Will’s psyche had remained a mystery to himself until discovered by Hannibal. What other secrets might he unearth? He is still learning to embrace whatever he might find, rather than recoil from it.

Lying supine, muscles still loose from sleep, Will nods his agreement. One leg bent, ankle tucked under his thigh, one arm draped over his chest, the other tossed over his head, the sheets kicked down near his feet. He always ends up kicking off the sheets, much to Hannibal’s mingled amusement and annoyance.

Hannibal draws the curtains to let sunlight spill in across the bed, casting half of Will in shadow, half in golden light. He sits himself on the armchair in the corner and murmurs a soft reminder for Will to remain still as he puts pencil to paper.

It is warm enough that he can lie naked without discomfort, the bed is comfortable, there are no pressing appointments to be kept, no demands for either of their attention.

Yet Will is overly aware of every breath he draws, the fall and rise of his chest, how his ribs expand, the slightest twitches of his muscles as he holds the same position. After only a handful of moments he grows fidgety, fingers clenching and releasing against his abdomen. What was a comfortable enough position for sleep is apparently unbearable to hold consciously.

“Close your eyes,” Hannibal says, and Will obeys immediately, thoughtlessly. “Wade into the quiet of the stream.”

Will shivers at the implicit test of the trust they’ve been building these months, sharp tipped beneath his ribs in reproachful reminder, yet earnestly hopeful. Hannibal ever searching for forgiveness, and equally unwilling to believe when it’s been granted. Will exhales a shuddery breath and sinks down beneath the turbulent surface of his thoughts to the steady, reassuring current that tugs at him in the winding river of his memory palace.

“Very good,” Hannibal’s voice calls out to him, from far away. “There are things I would like to show you, when the hunt has died down. Places I would like to take you.”

Hannibal’s voice grows nearer as he speaks and Will follows the sound of it. He steps from the stream to the shore. The trees grow as he walks, arching in glistening gold above his head, blocking out the sky, trunks into colonnades. Hannibal awaits him beneath the domed ceiling of the sanctuary.

“South America, I think. Venezuela or Colombia. There is plenty there to keep us both entertained.”

A smile tugs at Will’s lips. He can’t escape the implication of just what kind of entertainment Hannibal has planned. Patiently biding his time until the heat over their disappearance passes. Dark creeps in at the edges of the room, curling over the floor, climbing the walls, but Hannibal’s next words banish it.

“There is a quaint little house in La Macarena, a short flight from Bogota.” Hannibal takes him by the hand and leads him through the door of the sanctuary into a plain white room with a bed hung with mosquito netting, and not much else in the way of furnishings. A balcony opens to a thick forest where brightly coloured tropical birds call back and forth from the nearest branches, and Hannibal tugs gently on their joined hands down the stairs.

The house fades away into a forest clearing. It’s sultry with humidity, but there’s a bite in the air, the first cold of the season. Will can’t honestly imagine Hannibal wanting to visit this place, so far removed from the comfort and conveniences of the city. Hannibal who has lived his entire adult life moving from one metropolis to another, enjoying all the finest art and dining and entertainment on offer.

“The Caño Cristales is unique for the diversity of flora that flourishes briefly in the fall. It has been called the Rainbow River,” Hannibal explains, and the river begins to take shape as he continues to describe it--the verdant green of the trees dipping low over the almost unreal blue of the water, beneath which lays vivid red algae, black moss, bright orange sand fading to yellow at the bank.

Far above, Will is aware of his body relaxing ever more. It feels as though he’s weighed down, as though his limbs have been filled with sand, almost paralysed. He swallows back the initial panic and focuses on Hannibal’s voice, low and hypnotic as he leads Will along the winding path the river cuts through quartz.

Hannibal would bring him here because he knows Will would enjoy it. The peaceful remove from the incessant press of humanity in the city, nothing around for miles but nature. A perfect addition to his memory palace for retreating to when their travels took them places Will would rather not go. He can’t help the hot swell of affection for Hannibal that it inspires in him, and Will pulls on their joined hands to bring Hannibal to a stop.

Within this space, it can become difficult to distinguish between reality and imagination. When Hannibal turns to face him and lays a hand to Will’s cheek, it is as solid as in life, slightly cooler than Will’s skin. His thumb traces the shape of Will’s jaw and the dip beneath his bottom lip, eyes following the path.

Will blinks his eyes open lazily, returning to their room, washed in early morning sunlight. Hannibal is still in his place across the room, though even as his hand continues to move across the paper, his gaze is fixed on Will’s face. Will can still feel the ghost of his touch lingering on his face, and lets his eyes dip closed again, drifting back to the river bank where Hannibal awaits him.

“If you could see yourself as I do,” Hannibal says, echoing in his ears and his mind. His hand draws down Will’s neck to the open collar of his shirt, along the line of his collarbone.

As though he were standing behind the chair, watching as the drawing takes shape, Will can almost see Hannibal sketching each part as he touches them. Undoing the buttons of his shirt one-handed effortlessly and spreading the halves open. The forest has gone, the rivers, the chapel, all of it faded away. Only the two of them standing in darkness, Will acutely focussed on Hannibal’s hand down his sternum, sweeping along his ribs, finding out all the dips of shadow and planes of light.

“When the Greeks imagined Endymion they were doubtless inspired by a form such as yours. The exquisite underlying bone structure and musculature.” Hannibal traces the contour of Will’s pectoral muscles, fit within the shallow curve of his palm. “As though put to sleep by the hand of Zeus,” he murmurs absently.

Will has never been one to accept praise well, usually shrugging it off with dismissive words, or ignoring it outright. Coming from Hannibal, it makes him flush. He preens under the attention, torn by the unfamiliar desire for more, and Hannibal knows as much.

“The delicate beauty of your features contrasted with the decided masculinity of your body--the breadth of your shoulders and the taper of your waist,” punctuating the words with his hand along the path described, past his hip to stroke across Will’s thigh. Hannibal bends to hook a hand under Will’s knee and hauls his leg up to sling it around his hip. “Your runner’s legs,” he adds, unable to keep the salacious hint from his tone.

They both know Hannibal’s fondness for Will’s thighs, particularly when they’re twined around him like this, inevitably calling to mind the previous evening's activities. Will lifts his heavy eyelids to glare hazily at Hannibal, sitting with a self-satisfied smirk on his lips as he sketches. “I’m trying to remain still,” he scolds. His lips barely move to shape the words, the lethargy that has overtaken him is so powerful.

“How can I help myself?” Hannibal asks him, when Will’s eyes fall closed again. He bends his head, nosing alongside Will’s, along the curving line of his cheek to the corner of his mouth. “When the shape of your lips is surely enough to tempt the goddess Selene herself.”

Will snorts. “That’s appalling,” he says, utterly charmed.

Humour colours Hannibal’s voice when he speaks; he’s fully aware of the effect his words have on Will. “What can I say? The sight of your beauty moves me to poetry.” Hannibal kisses softly the indulgent curl of Will’s mouth and looks up at him from under his lashes. “Your eyes possess the liminal quality of that first luminous blue of dawn.”

The thing is, even he were going to accept a compliment, this sort of flowery bullshit would _never_ work on Will, and yet here he is practically squirming in embarrassed delight. Will runs a finger down Hannibal’s cheek, rough with stubble and taps against Hannibal’s lips. “You can’t even see my eyes,” he whispers. “They’re closed.”

“Will.” Hannibal voice is chastising. As if Hannibal hasn’t committed every part of him to memory. As if Will hasn’t done the same with Hannibal. How the facsimile that stands before him here is perfect, down to clefting scar on Hannibal’s cheekbone and the bridge of his nose, the sectoral heterochromia of his iris with flecks of dark amber-brown that makes Hannibal’s eyes seem red in the right lighting.

“But I have been remiss in mentioning one of my favourite parts of you,” Hannibal says, with a flair of that same liquid red.

Hannibal drops to his knees, inhaling along the line of Will's iliac crest, lashes fluttering in tremulous pleasure. Will lays his hand lightly on top Hannibal’s hair, uncertain if he wants to urge Hannibal lower, or tug him back to his feet. If the goal is to remain still, after all…

It’s all so vivid, though, the sensation of Hannibal’s breath stirring through his hair as he lips along Will’s inner thighs. His quads quiver with the effort of remaining still when Hannibal speaks, the plush swell of his lips ghosting over Will’s cock with each word. “The feel of you in my hand, delicate and vulnerable, trembling to contain yourself.” He illustrates by stroking his fingers down the length of Will's soft cock and Will's hips give a helpless little twitch.

“The weight of you on my tongue.” Hannibal licks along the side of Will's cock, drawing a shuddering moan. Hannibal hums in pleased approval when Will begins to harden and rise under his ministrations. “And your flavour,” he sighs, mouthing along the frenulum and up to tongue hopefully at the slit in the head of his cock.

“Fuck, Hannibal.” Will exhales harshly through his nose, hands clenching and releasing. “This isn't fair.”

“You’re doing very well,” Hannibal praises. “I know it’s difficult for you to remain still for any length of time. We're nearly finished.”

Will's chuckle turns into a gasp when Hannibal's lips wrap around his cock and he sinks all the way down, nudging at the back of his throat. He's not entirely erect yet, but Hannibal is determined to get him there. Will is beginning to doubt the sincerity of his admonition to remain still. He flattens his tongue along the underside in a slick undulation and swallows around the head, and Will convulses. “Hannibal,” he warns, barely more than a whisper.

Hannibal pulls off with a wet gagging noise that shouldn't be so fucking hot, except for the obvious enjoyment he gets from choking himself on Will's cock. He looks up at Will with such a blinding adoration that Will has the automatic the urge to hide from it. Hannibal's hands are grounding on his hips, sweeping his thumbs along the line of his pelvis and Will lets the feeling wash over him, suffusing him with warmth.

“The exquisite girth of your cock, splitting me open,” Hannibal says, leisurely pumping his hand up and down Will's cock. “The inescapable sensation of being penetrated by you, my body forced to stretch to accommodate you. Every ridge dragging within and the constant stimulation to my prostate.”

They're no longer standing, and Will isn't certain when that happened, their memory palace morphing around them so he's laid out on his back, Hannibal straddling his thighs. Will rolls them and Hannibal goes without a fight, spreading his legs for Will to settle between. Here, there are no physical necessities such as lubricant; Hannibal's hole is already slick and wet when Will fingers him.

“Your strength,” Hannibal says, “when you hold yourself above me. The power of your thrusts, oh--” His voice dies off on a groan when Will lines up and rocks into him. Will can't help but sink deeper and deeper, pulled in by the vice grip of Hannibal's body opening for him. He has to pause once he's bottomed out, taking in a long, deep breath to settle himself.

Hannibal's hands are everywhere, sliding up Will's arms and across the plane of his shoulders, down the expanse of his back to cup his ass and give a rough squeeze. He arches upward to press a kiss to the underside of Will's chin and all along his jaw.

“Hannibal,” he says softly in protest, opening his eyes. Will lays in the same position as before, though his cock stands at attention. “I can't--”

The pad and pencil have been discarded, and Hannibal sits on the edge of the bed, close enough to touch. His own cock is hard, curved up towards his belly, though it remains untouched. There's a smoldering heat in his eyes, regarding Will intently, and he says, “I think you can. I'd like to see it.”

Will is always giving in to what Hannibal demands of him, the never-ending test of his boundaries. He closes his eyes again, sunk between Hannibal's thighs, and begins to move. Hannibal's sigh of pleasure reaches to him from across the bed, spurring him on. He feels the ghostly echo of Hannibal's touch in the real world, stroking along his thigh, calling him back to that place where his body lies, leaden and quiescent, even as he fucks into Hannibal here.

“Such fine control you have,” he says, breath coming shorter. “I must admit, I often thought of you in this way, in our time apart, visiting you here, though I could never resist touching myself, in the end. Though you...I think you could cum just like this.”

A strangled, wounded sound escapes Will's throat, struggling past his teeth. Sweat drips from the ends of his hair, gathering in the hollow of Hannibal's collarbone. The obscene sound of their bodies moving together makes Will fuck him faster. Hannibal is so impossibly, deliciously tight. Will couldn't stop if he wanted to; each time he pulls out, Hannibal's body draws him back in.

“Go on,” Hannibal urges him. “Let me see.” He clenches down in Will's cock and rolls his hips, throwing Will off his rhythm.

Will groans and flexes his hips. He's teetering right on the edge, so close it aches in his balls and throbs in his cock. He opens his eyes and looks to Hannibal in entreaty. “Please,” he pants.

Hannibal licks his lips. “You've been so good for me, Will. You've done so well.” His words make Will's cock leak in dribbling pulses, slick on his belly. “Do this for me. Cum for me.”

Will's cock twitches and jerks, untouched, the first ribbon of cum spurting across his chest. He cries out in surprise, head tossed back, eyes falling closed again as he empties himself in Hannibal's ass. “Oh fuck,” he moans in helpless, astonished desire. Pulse after pulse wring him dry until he falls back against the mattress, panting.

When he opens his eyes, Hannibal is looming over him. “Lovelier than the finest work of art,” he says, and Will turns his face aside with a blush heating his cheeks.

“Hannibal,” he protests. His breath catches when Hannibal dips his head to lick the trails of cum on his skin down to their origin.

The rough texture of his tongue is almost unbearable dragging over Will's cock to mouth at his balls. Still, he opens his legs wide for Hannibal's exploration. There's still charcoal on his fingers, smearing over Will's thighs when he strokes up and down the sensitive expanse of skin.

Will cards through Hannibal's hair and sighs happily. Hannibal rests his cheek against Will's inner thigh and glances up at him with a soft smile. His cock is still hard, and Will loves it when Hannibal fucks him like this, after he's already cum, loose and lazy from pleasure, able to focus on every shift in Hannibal's expression, and how he looks when he falls apart.

But Hannibal seems uninterested in that at this moment. Unsurprising, really. Sometimes Will thinks sex is just an afterthought to him, when they can reach so deeply inside one another already with the things they say. Will traces his finger along Hannibal's cheekbone. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Not entirely, as is ever the case with you,” Hannibal says.

That familiar refrain. Will tugs on the long ends of his fine hair, threaded in silver. “Don't stop trying.”

Hannibal lays a kiss on the inside of his knee and promises, “Never.”


End file.
